GODS OF TIME

by DG SIDNA

  "I don't believe it." Careena looks down at her glass. "And you're saying it was Arulo? I've known that man for forty years. He's been my lead on a dozen missions. Bit of a wide-eyed idealist, though that's just about everyone over there these days. He was into yoga and spinach and all that healthy nonsense. Still, I certainly never took him for the turncoat type."

  "It was a shock to all of us. The portreeve actually suspected you for most of this time. She would have hauled you in, had anyone been left to do it."

  "Of course she did," Careena mutters. "So what did they get out of Arulo?"

  "Not much," the officer says. "He smuggled the bomb on his person into the meeting. It was the only way to get it through security. He died in the blast."

  I watch as Careena considers all this. The politics and logistics of what has happened is beyond me, but I can see it greatly troubles the old woman. "It doesn't make any damned sense," she says. "They had something on him, maybe? They were threatening his daughters? This is exactly why they don't allow us agents to have families, and I've always said they should expand that rule to you lot."

  "You're not one to talk, Smith," Story responds. I wonder what she means by that. But then she continues, "We did have the same thought, though. We went immediately to his family. His wife passed some years ago, but he has two younger daughters, Bell and Doria. Unfortunately, they're quite young, three and five, but they were able to give us something. Their father had told them about a man named Patmos. Apparently, this Patmos was the leader of a small group. We believe Patmos hired the Red Man to steal the RGMs from the Stellar Pearl."

  "Why?" I ask. "He's a terrorist?"

  "We're still not sure," Story says. "But I doubt it. Our computers can detect unnatural levels of stress, even ill intent, but Arulo was never flagged. To have evaded our security protocols, he must have believed, and believed sincerely, that what he was doing was for the greater good."

  "Great," Careena says. "So we're dealing with nutters."

  "Perhaps more than you know," Story says. "Arulo told his daughters that Patmos had promised to take them to a better world. Now, I admit that it's been... difficult to parse everything from a five-year-old. But the girls were already packed for a trip when we arrived. It seems likely to me, that Arulo betrayed the ministry, and even sacrificed himself, in order to book passage for Bell and Doria. The girls called the place they were going the World to Come. They also said that when they get there, it will wash away the World that Was."

  "That doesn't sound promising," I say.

  Careena agrees. "No, it doesn't. We've seen these types of lunatics before. They think they can get God's attention by going back in time and instigating a paradox. Or prove we're living in a simulation managed by a supercomputer somewhere in the multiverse. Who the hell knows. If they aren't stopped, they'll rip apart the fabric of the cosmos, and then it's lights out for everyone. These schemes aren't new, but normally these types can't even put on their shoes straight. We've never dealt with anyone this sophisticated before." "So what are you thinking?" "That it's safe to assume two things. First, Patmos is not planning to back in time alone. He intends to bring all his followers with him, which is why he needed all those RGMs."

  "And second?" I ask.

  "Second, he doesn't want the time police intervening. He must know we have a few tricks up our sleeves that could prevent what he's trying to do. So he went to a lot of trouble to kill everyone in a position to stop him."

  "Not everyone," Story interjects. "We still have you."

  "Then you haven't got schnitzel." Careena finishes her cognac to prove the point. "You think our wonderful portreeve is going to let me fly again? Not on your life, luv. Enjoy these last moments while you can." She points her glass toward the windows. "Speaking of which, you two haven't even noticed. We're here."

  I look up. There on the horizon is a world both beautiful and regal, a blue-green orb of brilliance, an Earth drawn in different borders. Tegana.

  The hair on the back of my neck stands as we enter orbit and more of the planet fills the view. There's a halo on the horizon, as bright as the light of heaven, angelic, a roof of golden fire cast from a nearby sun.

  I glance over to Careena. She is lost in the view, lost in thought, lost in regret. This is a sight that she has denied herself for too many years. Her eyes are uncharacteristically wet.

  She whispers, "I've eaten the bitter bread of banishment too long."

  It was time.

  Time for the prodigal daughter to finally return home.

  NINE

  Careena and I are escorted to the hangar of the Ark Royal where we are met by the stoic captain of the ship, Hamid Bashir. He strikes me as a proud man and somewhat larger than life, a movie character with a neatly trimmed beard left to age naturally with salt and pepper grey. His most striking feature, however, is a black eye patch, a sentiment to some event suffered as a young soldier, one that he likely never speaks of. In a world where any wound can be healed, this statement is not lost upon me.

  "Smith," the captain greets us, though his demeanor is hard to read. "What have I told you about using my ship as a damned taxi service?"

  "Good to see you too, Hamid."

  The two embrace hands in genuine camaraderie and some of the seriousness of the moment evaporates.

  "Is it as bad as they say?" the captain asks.

  "I think it might be."

  The captain nods. "You can accompany me down to port but after that, you're on your own. I've learned my lesson. I don't get involved with those sharks over at Temporal Affairs. And rumor has it, they're gunning for you. Watch yourself."

  Careena shrugs. "Eh, what else is new."

  Beside us in the hangar are rows of fighters, each a futuristic super jet, slick and intimidating. I'd touch one, but they're so polished and beautiful I fear I'd leave grubby fingerprints all over them. I know some boys at school, particularly my friend Charles, who'd lose their minds if they could be this close to such amazing weapons of aerial, or perhaps I should say stellar, combat. I'm more meh myself. "Will we be taking one of these down?" I ask.

  "No," the captain tells me. "We have a diplomatic transport aboard which we'll be taking down. It's far more comfortable, I assure you. The Ark Royal is the flagship of the Tegan Navy. In addition to these twenty-one fighters, we have three recon scouts, and three hundred dropboxes for planetary assault. Though now that the war is over, we'll probably be replacing those with something more practical one of these days. If you two will follow me, the others are waiting."

  We follow the captain down the length of the hangar, passing the neatly aligned rows of fighters. It feels like being on a movie set. I turn to Careena. "You used to fly one of these?"

  She glances at me suspiciously. "How did you know I was a fighter pilot? That information is bloody classified."

  I wink back. "You're not the only one with your secrets."

  "Smith was one of the best," Captain Bashir says. "We were sad to lose her to those loons over at Temporal Affairs."

  "Speaking of loons," Careena says, pointing to a fighter kept on display at the end of the hangar. "What is that old tin can doing here?"

  Even I can tell that this particular fighter jet is an antique.

  "That's Sexy Sadie," answers the captain. "We found her drifting while on patrol some years back. She must have made her way all the way from the Sombor Mandate. She's a piece of history, a relic from the First Khelt War. She'd been floating out there for more than six hundred years. She's got manual controls. Nothing like what you and I used to fly, Smith."

  Careena keeps her distance. "Looks bloody haunted, if you ask me. You should toss it back out in space."

  "Who are these Khelts?" I ask.

  The captain looks at me strangely. "They don't teach history where you're from?"

  Careena hand waves. "Ignore her. She's from a nun convent on the frontier, doesn't get out much." She leans toward me. "The Khelts are machines, deary. From the pla
net Kheltaris. They're the reason we don't put hard drives in our heads. No one wants to end up the way they did. Anyway, it's not important. We have bigger fish to fry at the moment."

  "Patmos," I say.

  "Aye."

  We reach the long, slender transport yacht that will take us down to the surface. Several of the captain's officers and aids are already aboard. The interior is not unlike that of comfy private jet. Not that I'd know; my transportation experience is generally limited to the New Jersey Transit commuter rail.

  "About this Patmos," Bashir says as we take our seats. "Military Intelligence doesn't have much at this point. It would be difficult for him and his group to operate on any of the mainline worlds, so we're assuming he's from the frontier. No known groups match the description and capabilities we've been given, but that's not saying much. It takes months to receive updates from the outermost colonies. If he arrived here using jump technology, then he'll be well ahead of any warnings we'd receive from out there."

  "And what about the Red Man?" I ask. I hate to even think of him. It brings up memories I'd rather not deal with. But I have to know.

  "Him we know more about," the captain tells me. "His rap sheet goes back decades. He's highly modified, well beyond the 2161 Standard, which makes him dangerous, but also severely restricts the places he has access to. As Smith mentioned, body modifications are strictly regulated. Ships like this one, important buildings, sometimes even entire city districts, have sensors that will alert the authorities to anyone with illegal modifications. Intelligence has done a psych profile on the man. Patmos may have ideological or religious motives, but they don't believe that to be the case with the Red Man. He's simply a hired gun, though likely one with a strict honor code and a misplaced sense of purpose. We do think he's still working for Patmos, however. So if we can find the Red Man, we believe he can lead us to Patmos."

  "I hope you do, captain."

  "We will, ma'am. Don't you worry."

  Our little ship departs the hangar and drops comfortably toward the surface. I'm fortunate to have a window seat where I quickly become enthralled, first by the continent below us and then by the city of New Harmony as it comes into view the closer we approach.

  I saw a poster of New Harmony earlier aboard the Stellar Pearl, but that doesn't compare to the real thing. This is the capital of the Republic of Tegana, a city entirely white and circular in form. Circles are embedded throughout its design, large circles and small circles, circles overlapping circles. There's something organic to the design, like the rings of several trees that have grown together over many generations.

  The surrounding countryside is a green and open steppe, with rivers and gently rolling hills. A few suburban settlements are scattered about as well; each their own circle, each white, each a tiny droplet sitting at the edge of a beautiful ivory pool. Trains shoot between these settlements at impossible speeds. There are no automobiles here, no sprawl, no tacky billboards or inhumane architecture; only the greens of nature, the yellows of agriculture, and the white simplicity of a humble city.

  Careena catches me staring at the city as we descend. "She was a Quaker settlement originally. They used the radial design to stress equality and the simple white architecture to stress modesty. there are very few tall buildings, only in the city center, and even those aren't as tall as those ugly towers all the Mahshadi live in."

  "Where did they go?" I ask.

  "Who?"

  "The Quakers."

  "Why, they didn't go anywhere," she says. "They're me! My ancestors anyway. I'm a descendant of the original settlers. But religions from Old Earth were hard to keep going once we started colonizing the stars and finding life on other worlds, cracking the mysteries of physics, that sort of thing. I think at first, a lot of religions saw the cosmic frontier the same way sects from Old Europe must have seen the Americas, a world free from the interference of the state. You could start a colony out here and teach your children any ludicrous notion you wanted. And there'd be no cable television or internet to contradict you otherwise."

  It made sense. "So what happened?"

  "Time can be cruel, I reckon. Quite a few of the original colonies were spearheaded by religious organizations. They were eager to leave and start up their little utopias. But because they went first, they only ended up in the Inner Core, which wasn't so far from Earth once we had faster ships. That made those worlds prime real estate. They were flooded with immigration, and eventually absorbed back into the very secular culture they had hoped to escape. The Quakers came here later, I guess you could call this region the Midcore now. But after four hundred years, the results have been the same."

  "And aliens? Weren't they out here, colonizing worlds too?"

  "You'd think so, but no. Last I heard, there are six hundred and forty-eight worlds with indigenous life that we know of. Though that number is always changing. News of discoveries from the other galactic arms is slow to reach us here. Even so, most of those worlds have never evolved beyond anything more interesting than strange bacterial sludge and photosynthetic algae. Only a few, maybe thirty or forty, have fully developed biospheres with complex ecosystems and critters that we'd call proper animals."

  "And intelligent life?" I press.

  She laughs. "You met them! The Thanes. Those little bark-skinned boogers. Our fellow intelligentsia in the universe. The truth is, they didn't even have nuclear fission when we encountered them. Though they did manage to shoot an astronaut into space, so we figured it wouldn't hurt to stop by and say hello. Scared the piss out of them, I'm sure. But we were lonely exploring the cosmos all alone. And maybe they had some answers about the nature of existence that we didn't. Turns out, though, they were even more clueless than we were. But they can talk. So that's something, I guess. We were excited about that."

  I think back to Lieutenant Chimat. I did like him; he had a strange sort of charm and charisma. I almost miss the strange little man and his boundless enthusiasm for felines.

  "We've landed," an officer announces.

  "Ladies, welcome to New Harmony," Bashir offers as he and his aids depart. "And Smith, good luck."

  I disembark with Careena and see there are only one or two other ships on the large circular platform. They look very militaristic, as do all the workers coming and going about their business. This must be a military base—not the civilian landing port.

  Story Beckett is waiting for us on the platform as a tram arrives to take us to the main terminal.

  "Is that really you?" I ask as we approach.

  She extends a hand. "In the flesh."

  I take the hand. It's warm with life. I can't help but pull her in for a long overdue hug.

  Careena looks around with suspicion. "So you're all we get for a welcoming committee? I thought that hag would have sent a whole battalion here to drag my arse back."

  "Oh, she did." Story answers. "They're waiting for you over at Port Central. They still think you're aboard the Stellar Pearl."

  Careena raises an eyebrow. "A lie, Beckett?"

  "A clerical error."

  "Bless your damned heart, girl."

  The young officer explains, "I thought you might want a little time to enjoy the city on your own."

  "Thank you."

  "I'll meet you back at headquarters?"

  The old woman nods. "Of course, I won't take too long."

  Story welcomes me again to Tegana and then takes her leave. I look out at a horizon, a sky, a sun that is not the one I've known my entire life. To imagine, that I'd be standing on another world in another arm of the galaxy, and that it would be so beautiful, with a calm breeze and the gentle scent of morning.

  A few birds pass by overheard. What is their story? Were they imported from Earth centuries ago? Would they still know their terrestrial cousins were they to ever meet them? I have so many questions, but Careena simply takes my arm and pulls me along.

  My tour, it seems, has only just begun.

  TEN


  With the excitement of a schoolgirl, Careena shows me as much as she can. Her normal bitterness, that wall she always has up, that barrier between her and the world, has come down, if only slightly. There's even, dare I say, a twinkle in her eye.

  We walk through some very beautiful neighborhoods. The homes are stone with simple bleached facades, reminiscent of the white painted houses of the Greek Aegean Sea, yet it's clear they have all the amenities befitting a city perched at the edge of the universe; they're simply disguised as something modest and unassuming.

  "I grew up on this street," she tells me at one point. The street she shows me, called Hoosier Lane, is charming, with cobblestones below and occasional grape vines growing overhead, offering shade and the green of nature. The doors of the white houses are painted different shades of blue, with the occasional red. It really is quite lovely. Where streets intersect, there's sometimes a small stone plaza with a fountain and some benches, a sort of neighborhood square where children play and couples sit.

  We continue on toward the heart of the city, where the buildings become taller, though rarely more than five or six stories, and never do they lose their humble aesthetic.

  The city center surrounds a great circular space of botanical gardens, small lakes, and running paths known as Prospect Park. One side of the park climbs up a low hill; it seems half the city sits a few hundred feet above the other. On the edge of that hill, overlooking the park, are many official looking white buildings. Careena tells me that is our destination, the district known as Parliament Hill. One of those buildings is the Ministry of Temporal Affairs.

  But before we get there, we pass a small pub at the edge of the park.

  "Let's just pop in for a pint, shall we?"

  "Really, Careena? Is this the time?"

  She seems offended. "When isn't it the time?"

  "Fine."

  We enter the quiet pub. A handful of patrons sit around tables, though few seem to have much to say. The place seems more like a sort of limbo, where souls come to avoid the chores of daily life, the demands of nagging family members; here one can be alone with their thoughts, and yet not alone at all.